


The Divine Hand

by sweetmamajama



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Child Abuse, Depression, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fantasy, Flogging, Gentle Sex, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Pedophilia, Loneliness, M/M, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Sexual Slavery, Obsessive Behavior, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Racism, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rimming, Scents & Smells, Sexual Slavery, Size Difference, Slavery, Slow Burn, Starvation, Underage Sex, Unrequited Love, Weirdness, Work In Progress, implied/referenced somophilia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-09-28 10:40:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10093469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetmamajama/pseuds/sweetmamajama
Summary: After getting captured by the authorities, a runaway slave, Ivanyav gets help from an unlikeliest of people.Enthralled with his savior, Ivanyav takes him home only to find out that the feeling may not be mutual.And I fucking suck at summaries…





	1. The Intruder

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there dear reader. I would like to say that I’m new here and this is the first story I’ve written in like years and I’m not a good writer…and English isn’t my first language… I know I try. So have that in mind when you tell me about all my grammatical errors, but please do point them out so I can fix it. I need all the help I can get. As for the warnings the first chapter contains violence some torture, it’s not overly graphic and this is pretty much the worst it’ll get. The heavy angst may continue for like a chapter or two but it gets better. Story will contain rape, dub-con at best, and sexual abuse, not brutal but it is what it is. You will be warned.  
> Also this story was submitted to AFF too
> 
> I would like to thank my beta CloveReef, you’re the best!
> 
> Please comment and let me know what you think and what stupid mistakes I made. Have in mind that your feedback is the reason why I posted this story here. Thank you for reading ☺ <3

Ivanyav knew he was discovered the second he crossed eyes with one of the soldiers heading in his general direction. He didn’t leap, didn’t even flinch. He just kept stoically eyeing his enemies, cards still in hand. A few of his fellow workers started standing up, alarmed by the number of the soldiers gathering on the deck. When the General himself appeared at the top of the stairs Ivanyav knew shit was definitely about to hit the fan. The old man shouted at the top of his lungs as he leapt down the stairs, all red-faced, brandishing his whip towards the slave refuge. Ivanyav felt strangely detached, watching the scene unfold as if he was just one of the unconcerned spectators and not the person who was about to get brutalized.  
  
He had to admit, watching the retired General limp around on his busted up leg was quite a comical sight to behold. The always genteel, respectably behaved and perfectly dressed noble was now dressed in nothing but a long nightgown and house slippers with his hair sticking out in all general directions. Following shortly behind him was his child servant with the General’s large coat in his small hands. The boy was no doubt trying to drape it over the man’s shoulders while not getting hit with the whip angrily carving paths through the air. The kid looked beyond terrified at his master’s outburst. If the situation was different Ivanyav could have laughed.  
  
The rest of the sailors hastily abandoned the card table, looking around with apprehension and confusion. Ivanyav was the only one remaining seated as the guards surrounded him.  
  
There was really nothing else left for him to do. The endless sea surrounded him on all sides, trapping him on the ship with his captors. If he resisted it was likely he’d die in the process, not that there wasn’t a high possibility he would be killed anyway.  
  
“You, get up!” The General roared, livid and out of breath.  
  
Ivanyav blinked. He stared blankly in the other man’s eyes, momentarily paralyzed. Perhaps he was stalling, avoiding the inevitable; because he knew the second he rose from his seat they would jump him.  
  
Lowering his eyes, the Ivaran slave rose, towering over all the other men present. As if on cue, the soldiers jumped him, bending his arms painfully behind his back. Before he could blink, the General’s whip struck him hard across the face. The man was on him, striking him with his fist. Each attack on Ivanyav’s head and shoulders was followed by the General’s loud cursing. The guards holding Ivanyav dropped him, allowing their commander kick the slave with his feet, which quickly proved to be inefficient since the General was wearing soft slippers and one of his legs was lame.  
  
“You son of a barbarian whore!” The General cursed and spat on the man beneath him, his spit landing in Ivanyav’s long, disheveled hair.  
  
The General continued his attack as Ivanyav curled up on the floor, using his long arms to shield his head. He let out groans, hisses and whimpers, yet, beyond those small noises of pain no other sounds of protest escaped his lips. He wanted to spit and curse and scream and shout at them all, but resisted it. Pain wasn’t new to him though, and neither was the humiliation. So he took it as passively as he could in hopes that soon he would reach the shores of Mirna.  
  
Out of shape and injured, the retired General was soon exhausted from his attack on Ivanyav. Sweat poured down his flushed face, despite the frigid air, his breathing labored and shallow. He glared down at the intruder before turning that angered expression on his men.  
  
“Why the hell are you standing there like fucking idiots!” he snapped, looking around, suddenly aware of the audience that had gathered on the deck and his undignified state of dress. “What are you looking at?! Back to work!” he barked at the gathered sailors and servants, who scattered off immediately.  
  
The General then looked back on the massive body curled up on the ground. “Round up the other slaves! I shall make an example! He is to be flogged!” he barked at the agitated guards and limped off in a hurry, cursing under his breath.  
  
Ivanyav was still on the ground, clutching his head when the General left him at the mercy of his soldiers. They wasted no time beating him senseless. Ivanyav curled in a ball on the hardwood, trying to shield himself with his long, shivering limbs as much as possible.  
  
In contrast to the General’s soft house slippers the kicks from the guards hurt like hell. Each time the solid rubber and metal military boots struck him it was as though he was getting a sledgehammer in the ribs.  
  
This time he did cry out in pain when they kicked him, one man hit him hard in the small of his back, while the other kicked him in the ribs. He could have sworn he heard a sharp crack, one of his ribs snapping like a twig. Although he might have imagined it with all the shouting around him and buzzing in his ears. By the time they were done kicking him around on the floor like a football, he couldn’t think straight anymore.  
  
Opening his eyes, he tried to focus his vision on anything, but all he could see were pale colors enveloped in fog moving around him like he was underwater. He tasted blood in his mouth and felt it on his face and tried to remember if he was hit in the head or if he lost consciousness.  
  
Ivanyav felt one of the soldiers grab his legs, roughly janking them, trying to pull them away from his chest. He didn’t understand what he was doing at first until the man started yanking at his pants. Hit with a wave of panic at the realization he didn’t even fully comprehend, Ivanyav let out a thundering shout and started thrashing around like a madman. Somewhere in the back of his dazed mind he kept seeing a fifteen year old boy being violated by two guards in the mines of Mirna.  
  
The soldiers turned him on his stomach and held him down, one painfully digging the heel of his boot in his neck, but Ivanyav didn’t feel the pain. The adrenaline was flooding his veins as he kept seeing the darkness of the mines, hearing the buzzing of the engines, almost tasting the strong metallic smell and dust in the air, _feeling their filthy hands… ___  
  
His pants were yanked down along with his boots, leaving him bare from the waist down. He felt like he was drowning, his lungs were burning. He opened his mouth against the rough wooden floor of the deck, gasping for air like a fish out of water.  
  
Then he remembered. _Wait… wait and survive… ___  
  
He tried to calm himself as he was hauled of the floor and his tunic and undershirt torn from his body. He kept reminding himself that there was nothing for him to do; he just needed to sit there and take it.  
  
It was a freeing thought, accepting the inevitable whatever it may be.  
  
He was then dragged, stark naked around the deck and thrown on a high wooden surface that he guessed was some kind of makeshift table. The guards held him down against the wood as one of the men shackled his wrists above his head to the sinister altar and the others proceeded to tie his legs.  
  
He could have rolled his eyes at the unnecessary security measures they were taking. No matter how threatening he may be (or appear), he was but one man, unarmed against… however many of them there were. Also he was sure most of them had a firearm or at least some kind of a blade, at least a fucking pocket knife. _And _he was also completely passive and severely injured.__  
  
When they decided that he was tied up and secured enough, the guards just walked off and left him there.  
  
Ivanyav listened to the waves, distantly noticing that the ringing in his ears subsided and his heartbeat slowed down. He took a shuddering breath and opened his eyes just in time to see the warm mist leaving his mouth. He could really use a smoke right now…  
  
He had no idea how long he laid there naked, spread out on the cold. His entire body ached from the position he was in. Even uninjured it would have been an awkward and eventually painful position for someone his size to be bent over a table like that, it was simply too low for his long legs.  
  
He listened to the waves, the eternal song of the sea. It was there before him and it would be there long after he was gone…  
  
He closed his eyes and he wasn’t on the ship anymore, he was floating in the water, swimming with the waves. He inhaled the frigid air, the smell of salt in his nostrils. He was flying, or drifting like a cloud wherever the wind took him. He briefly wondered again if he hit his head, but quickly forgot that thought again. It mattered not.  
A song came to him, his mother’s voice, whispering softly in his ear. He started singing along, moving his mouth against the hard wood, but only the softest of whispers came out.  
  
Ivanyav opened his eyes and he was back on the ship, tied on the deck. His breathing was labored, but he kept singing, more feeling the vibrations in his throat than hearing the low rasp of his voice.  
  
As his senses starter coming back to him, including his hearing, he realized there was a commotion on the deck again. Throwing few glances around, he saw that the soldiers, as commanded, were gathering the slaves on the deck.  
  
Half naked, starved and terrified the slaves huddled together for warmth, shaking from more than the cold. They looked even more like the living dead out in the sun than in the dim, yellow light of the lower decks. There were children too, little skeletons wrapped in tight skin, their faces aged beyond their years, their eyes looked too large for their heads and their heads too large for their bodies. Women with ashen faces, their breasts looking like empty bags of skin. Old men and young men looked all the same. Ivanyav never saw anything like it in his life.  
  
He turned his head to the side, toward the ocean, wishing it would swallow him, shield him from their wild, haunting eyes. He turned his head away, he couldn’t look at them.  
  
They will think he failed them. He didn’t.  
  
He was never meant to be their hero…  
  
The guards or soldiers, or whatever those idiot goons were – he couldn’t tell yelled commands and warnings as they directed the crowd. The General made an appearance again, this time in his full uniform, regal and stoic as always. But his face still had a red hue that reminded one of a big juicy tomato. In his usual solemn and dramatic fashion the General proclaimed to the frightened crowd what was about to take place and why.  
  
Even though the matter concerned him most of all, Ivanyav paid him no mind, hearing only every fifth word. He kept mumbling the song to himself, feeling strangely at peace.  
  
When the General finished with his lengthy speech to the agitated slaves, half of which either didn’t understand the language or were too ill, cold or frightened to listen, he ordered the ‘punisher’ to proceed. Whip ready in hand, the man stepped closer to Ivanyav and struck him across the back.  
  
As the first blow came Ivanyav jerked and let out a short guttural sound somewhere between a growl and a groan. The metal spikes on the end of the whip stuck to his flesh and as the whip was yanked it tore at his skin. His body spammed, arms jerking, legs shaking. He gripped the rusty metal restraints, relieved in the way the chain was etching in his palms, his eyes burning from the tears. Anything to distance his fragile mind from the deep, brutal gashes on his back.  
  
He was vaguely aware of the audience, the way they winced at every strike, the children among them crying, the adults averting their gaze in designation. He could almost smell their fear, the anger, _the helplessness._  
  
The second blow came and then the third… and the forth… and the fifth… He stopped counting. There was no point. Instead he just kept singing.  
  
He was so concentrated on the song that he barely noticed his voice gradually getting louder and louder as the torture continued. Soon he was screaming the words at the top of his lungs, feeling the melody despite the painful moans and groans that interrupted it, and his own uneven, raspy voice failing him at times. But then he realized that he wasn’t singing alone.  
  
He opened his wet eyes.  
  
_They were singing…_  
  
_The slaves were singing with him. _He looked at their sunken faces finding the determination and pride in their eyes. He saw their souls and they were _beautiful.___  
  
Urged on, he continued, his voice growing even stronger, the agony of the cruel whip tearing at his tattered flesh all but forgotten.  
  
Someone was crying in the distance.  
  
He didn’t even realize it was him until he was choking on his own sobs.  
  
Was it the pain?  
  
It didn’t matter.

  



	2. The Box

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank my beta CloveReef and tcr, you guys are da best!
> 
> Please leave kudos and please comment, tell me what you think. It helps me breathe! It gives me inner strength!

_He could see the moon._  
  
_He could almost see it, bright and clear in the dark skies. ___  
  
_He could see the moon, a beacon of light rising above the endless sea of darkness. ___  
  
_He could see it, if he tried hard enough _.__  
  
_He could feel its sacred light upon his tattered flesh. Feel it on his bruised skin, caressing, healing, loving. ___  
_He could feel its pull on his body. Its energy flooding his hazed mind, feeding his hungry soul, making his blood run through him. ___  
  
_He could feel the Mother herself reach out and touch him. ___  
  
He could. If he just focused hard enough, he could force his blind eyes to see through the empty darkness, through his heavy lids and through the thick barriers that enslave him. As time passed it became easier and easier to trick his delirious mind. He would surrender to the growing madness, devouring him from the inside like a disease.  
  
He saw things that weren’t there, things of the past. He would see a vague image of his mother's face floating above him, hear her voice whispering into his ear, singing to him, feel the cool calluses of her hand on his forehead. He could smell her too, the warm odor of livestock mixed with the fresh air of the forest.  
  
It reminded him of when he was a child. He was ill, his skin burning, his mind fogged and barely aware – much like now. He could remember his mother coaxing his soul to return to his young body, her always strong and stern voice going soft, almost pleading. Her hands always quick, rough and unyielding became gentle when she combed her bony fingers through his long hair. They would tremble as she washed his skin with a wet rag and held his limp, smaller hand in hers, occasionally bringing it up to her face and kissing it through murmured prayers.  
  
That was the first and the last time she cried in front of him. He couldn’t see her tear stricken face, but he could feel the hot tears on her rough cheek, feel the way her full, cracked lips were trembling, curving in a frown around his skin. He heard the cracking in her voice and the occasional sniff or a sob that managed to pass her strong barriers. He felt guilty that he made his mother cry, that he made her worry so much. He wanted to reach out and comfort her, tell her he was still there. But he couldn’t. He was lost in the endless fog that was thick as dough.  
  
The memory was never clearer in his mind than it was in the suffocating darkness.  
  
His grandfather was there too. He could feel the strong presence in his bones. The harsh thrashing of the ship at sea seemed like gentle rocking in the old man’s strong arms. He could feel the warm harshness of granddad’s breath on his face as the man sang to him, chanting spells and prayers in a deep, comforting rasp. Through the fog he could see the harsh lines of old granddad's face, his dark leathery skin, his long, woolly gray hair, the deep wrinkles around the stern line of his mouth and the silent streams leaking from his small, sunken eyes.  
  
The old man’s voice never wavered; his hands never trembled as he held Ivanyav in his arms. He was the solid rock, a strong foundation, the unyielding pillar that kept them all from falling. He was the father Ivanyav lost, the father he wanted and the father he needed.  
  
Ivanyav never knew how he managed to carry on without his guidance.  
  
Sometimes he heard the cries of his sister, her high-pitched voice in the distance. The ghostly wails chilled him most of all. He yearned to comfort her, to hold her tiny hand in his, feel the softness of her chubby fingers against his burning skin. He wanted to curl up against her small form under the blankets like he used to when the nights were cold and dark.  
  
She chased his nightmares as much as he did hers. It was ironic, for now she plagued them.  
  
She haunted him now for he failed to protect her.  
  
Sometimes she came to him as warm and as loving as he wanted to remembered her. She was pure and innocent as she should have been, her round face bathed in the sunlight as bright as her smile. She would beckon him to come, to follow her back to that place of warmth, safety and light. But he could never catch up to her, no matter how desperately he tried.  
  
That wasn’t a place for him, for he was filthy now, undeserving.  
  
But sometimes she came to him in the moonless nights, her image twisted, her face distorted by the long shadows. She brought along the humid air, the metallic stench of the mines. Her body was void of color, all fat and muscle, like a skeleton clad in leather, a wraith wearing her face.  
  
He didn’t want to remember her that way. He dreaded her eyes: the huge black voids that were her irises, unseeing and all seeing at the same time. They stared at him, burning into his soul; they were scorching hot and icy cold all at once. They accused and he knew that he was guilty.  
  
He didn’t want to remember her that way, as the shadow she had become. It pained him to see her once rosy cheeks round with baby fat turned so horribly sunken and gray, her once full and pouty mouth become a thin, cracked frown. The sight of her healthy white teeth now sickly shades of yellow and brown made his stomach churn. He hated seeing what became of the hands he used to hold between his, the same chubby little hands now the hands of an old woman; long, bony fingers shaking and aching, skin as cold and rough as stone with nails like claws.  
  
She was there with him in the darkness, emerging from it like she was one with the shadows. She crouched in the corner, watching, _waiting… ___  
  
She was like a vulture watching a wounded animal take its last pained breaths.  
  
She didn’t speak to him then. She didn’t have to. Her image said it all; her haunting eyes spoke for themselves. She comforted and terrified him at the same time.  
  
It was an abomination wearing his sister’s face, or at least he told himself, his sister was alive. He told himself…  
  
But he didn’t know where she was.  
  
He didn’t know if she was living or dead.  
  
***  
  
_The floor is on fire… ___  
  
They have put him in an oven, he is certain of it. They aim to roast him alive. His body is burning, skin boiling and peeling off of him like chicken skin. His back is on fire.  
  
The air is humid and reeks of piss and vomit. It suffocates him, choking all of the oxygen out of his lungs. The room is too small, it drives him mad. He is surrounded by walls like enemies. He can barely stand up in the tiny space, his head hitting the ceiling when he straightens. He jumps from wall to wall in his metal cage, listening to the metallic echoing. He can barely hear anything outside. He screams at them to let him out. But who are _they? ___  
  
_He is alone, all alone… ___  
  
***  
  
There were three tiny holes in the outer wall of the box, barely big enough for his pinky finger to pass through. He spent hours with his face pressed against them, smelling the fresh ocean air. He let the sun caress his skin through the tiny holes. Sometimes a few drops of cold water slipped through, spraying his feverish skin. He cherished every drop, spreading it on his face as thinly as possible. But it was never enough.  
  
It was a comfort to him that there still existed a world outside of his metal prison. Though sometimes at night, when he was alone with the darkness, he forgot it.  
The smell of the sea reminded him of the stories he heard long ago from his grandfather about the unclean dead. The spirits who were human once, but forgot who they were, cursed forever to roam the dark waters. They were the lost ones, the selfish ones, those who have died away from home, whose hearts were filled with wrath, vengeance or sorrow, those consumed by suffering...  
  
_Those who were completely alone… ___  
  
It terrified him now more than ever. Even more than as a small child, when he sat by the fire, clenching big brother’s hand or hiding his face in mother’s skirts listening to granddad’s frightening tales. More than as a boy lying in bed at night, jumping at every noise outside the tent.  
  
Back then he was afraid of the monsters and ghosts lurking in the shadows. He feared invisible abominations swimming in the river. It scared him to go alone near the water at dark, worried he was going to run into some kind of ungodly creature, disfigured and disgusting outside and evil and bloodthirsty on the inside.  
  
But now, now he was afraid of becoming one.  
  
And that was a far more frightening fate than being devoured by a monster.  
  
What if he died right now, alone at sea? What would happen to his soul? Would he be cursed to forever roam the earth, never to find peace?  
  
_…Never to be united with his family in the afterlife… ___  
  
He knew he fit the category well.  
  
Like them, he too was lost, both metaphorically and literally. Often in the dark of his cell, he would forget who he was, he would forget his own name. He was lost and away from home. The path he now walked had become almost invisible in the thick dark fog within his heart.  
  
_He is impure… filthy… ___  
  
He could never escape it; it followed him everywhere he went like a shadow. It would consume him someday he was sure of it… if it hadn’t already. He tried to keep it down underneath the surface. He ran from it, tried not to think about it, but it was always there. It never went away.  
  
He stared at the dark ceiling, realizing that nothing was really different. There was the same emptiness in his heart, the ever present ache, the same loneliness. There was a hole in his heart he could never fill and the more time passed the bigger it became. It didn’t matter if he was in that fucking box in the middle of the cold ocean or at home, in his shack in the woods. He was still alone.  
  
_Home…_  
  
_There is no home. They took it. They took everything. They destroyed it. They destroy everything they touch! ___  
  
_…What is a home worth when you are all alone? _It’s just an empty house, a rundown shack somewhere in the mountains surrounded by woods.__  
  
He clenched his shaking hands into fists, short nails digging into skin enough to leave scars.  
_He has nothing._ They took it!  
  
_He is alone. _Because _they _killed everyone he loved!____  
  
He screamed and thrashed on the floor, howling like a mad dog. His fists bashed metal and pain shot through his arms, straight to his aching spine. He clawed at the walls, cursing and yelling, spit falling from his peeled lips.  
  
Sometimes the sadness became rage. And the rage became hate. It was just another thing threatening to destroy him.  
  
_“One should not hate another,” _granddad said in his deep ancient voice,_ “As people we must love one another for we all are one and the same in Mother’s eyes. Hate is an illness of the heart. Nothing good can ever come of it.”_  
  
He felt that hate corrupting his essence even now as the memories haunted him. When he closed his eyes he saw the grotesque heap of limbs that was once his stepfather, being hastily buried in a shallow grave.  
  
_He sees the pallid, empty expression on his mother's face as she cradles Big brother’s lifeless body._  
  
_He sees his brother’s severed head being paraded outside the village with twenty or more others. He only recognizes his head by his unusual curly hair for his face is unrecognizable. ___  
  
_He sees the wooden huts engulfed in angry flames and thick black smoke that burns his eyes. He sees the people falling on their knees among the ruins, crying over their dead children. He sees those same people being cut down like grass, gunned down as they run. He sees them on fire, running around like chickens with their heads cut off. He can still smell the horrible odor of burning flesh. ___  
  
_They were good people, undeserving of such a cruel fate. ___  
  
_He sees the monsters clad in the imperial uniforms drag Big sister by the hair and tear at her clothes. How they rip the screaming children from Sister-in-law’s protective arms. How they push her on the ground and force themselves on her. ___  
  
_He sees his mother as she stands tall and proud, shielding them with her strong body that had given birth to six healthy children. He sees her face twisted with rage and grief as she grabs an ax and runs into the carnage, her voice roaring in a desperate scream as she hacks at the enemy. That was the last time he saw her for she was lost in the sea of corpses. ___  
  
_He sees the tears streaming down granddad’s face as he calls after her, as he clutches his old handgun in his trembling hands. He sees him then as he falls down, blood streaming down his torso. He sees the snarl on a soldier's face as he forcibly tears the gun from granddad’s dead hands and then bayonets him in the side. ___  
  
_He sees the face of his sister frozen in a silent scream next to him. He remembers how the ringing in his ears was so loud that he could barely hear the hysterical crying of the toddler in his arms. ___  
  
_He sees the piles of corpses. ___  
  
_He sees his little brother dying in his arms, his little body deformed by starvation and disease._  
He sees the life slowly going out of his sister's eyes. __  
  
_He sees her face for the last time as they drag her away. ___  
  
_He sees everything he ever knew turned to ash. ___  
  
“How can I not hate them?! “he screamed at his grandfather. “They took everything from me!“ he slammed his fist at the wall. “How can you not?! It was your family too!  
  
“...Answer me! “ He roared, his voice echoing in the darkness. __  
  
But there was no answer. Because old granddad was dead.  
  
“Please…” His pleading voice cracked with desperation, trembling hands fisting long oily strands of hair, clawing at his skull. Who he pleaded with, he was no longer sure. “I _need _you... I need your guidance...“__  
  
***  
  
He remembered a foreign story he heard somewhere. It was about the creatures called the sirens. They were bird-women with beautiful voices that lived around the ocean – or in the ocean, he wasn't sure. They say the song of the sirens was so beautiful that anyone who hears it will go mad and crash their ship to follow the enchanting voices. In their depraved craving for human flesh, they would feast upon the bloated corpses of the dead sailors.  
  
Sometimes he swore he heard the song of the sirens somewhere in the distance. He wondered if they called for him.  
  
He wondered if these sirens were like the Unclean Dead around the rivers and lakes. Maybe the sirens were the unclean dead, just differently named.  
  
He wondered if he died now, would he also become a siren. From what he heard of the stories, the sirens were exclusively female. Maybe, instead of becoming one, he would just be consumed by one.  
  
Perhaps his soul would be trapped in the waves of the ocean, falling to the bottom like a stone instead of flying upward to the heavens, free and light like a cloud.  
  
He heard the voices again.  
  
They were soft and sweet but ominous at the same time. Their words were unknown to him for they sang in an ancient tongue of the sea, unknown to any mortal. He wondered if one day he could understand them.  
  
He turned his face to the side, his head spinning. He looked at the familiar figure looming in the dark corner. Two dark, bloodshot eyes stared back at him from the wrong side of the grave. She cocked her head. The movement seemed bizarrely animalistic.  
  
“Are you a siren as well?” he rasped, his throat hurting like he swallowed a box of nails. “Have you come for me, sister?”  
  
Her dry, cracked mouth moved, but nothing passed her lips but a weak moan that didn’t sound human at all. Her eyes were so empty, an endless space of nothingness. When he gazed at them he felt like he was being sucked into the eternal abyss of cold, thick darkness. It felt like he was sinking in quicksand.  
  
“Sister… _please _,” he choked out, his voice cracking. “Take me with you… Have mercy on me…” he whispered, his bottom lip quivering.__  
  
For a long time she just stood there. She was still as a statue. But then she moved, slowly dragging herself forward on her claw-like hands closer to him. Her body twitched with every movement, her bones cracking like she was about to fall apart. It reminded him of a wooden marionette held up on strings.  
  
_“You did this to me…” _She breathed. Her breath smelled like death.__  
  
“Yara…” He whimpered, her name leaving his lips like a prayer. “Yara I am so sorry… please forgive me…” He reached for her with his big shaky hand. “I never meant to let them take you, I swear! I was going to find you, you have to believe me, I swear on our mother's grave I was going to find you! Please, Yara!” He begged her, reaching desperately for her. But no matter how close she seemed, he could never touch her. He crawled to her, groveling on the floor like a worm at her feet.  
  
_“You. Did. This. To. Me!” _She screeched, groaning like a dying animal. Her eyes went impossibly wide; he was almost expecting her eyeballs to pop out of her head.__  
  
“I’m sorry!” He croaked, his entire body shaking violently. “I was afraid! I was a coward!”  
  
She froze, craning her neck to the side, like a bird. The shadows were alive. They crawled on the walls like a billion cockroaches. _“You still are…” _Yara hissed, the shadows behind her morphing into a pair of big, crow-like wings. He thought he saw affection in her eyes.__  
  
He rested his heavy head on the floor as the wings surrounded him like a thick black curtain. He closed his eyes, a serene feeling sweeping over him.  
  
The wings wrapped around him, cocooning him in their thick soft feathers.  
  
***  
  
Ivanyav sat on the floor, leaning with his back on the wall. He stretched out his long muscular legs and stared with empty, blurry eyes at the door opposite him. There was a thin line of light creeping in from under it. He didn’t know how long he had been staring at it, like a cow stares at a dead calf.  
  
He wished something would happen, _anything. _He didn’t care anymore at this point. He didn’t care what happened to him. He didn’t care if they tortured him in all of the worst ways possible. He didn’t care if he lived or died. Quite the contrary, he welcomed death at this point.__  
  
He wished the ship would crash and for the ocean to swallow them all…  
  
He always thought of himself a tough man, at least physically. After all, he had survived a lot. He managed to live through the harshest of the northern winters, slavery, starvation, humiliation, brutal beatings and torture.  
  
But one thing that he just couldn’t take was thirst.  
  
It drove him _mad. ___  
  
His mouth was dry as a desert, like he ate a bucket of sand. His throat was sore, it pained him to swallow. His gums were aching. His tongue was swollen and numb to the point that it felt like a foreign object in his mouth.  
  
He had discovered that a way to make himself forget about the thirst and the hunger was to concentrate on the other things that pained him. So when the thirst became unbearable he would rub his wounded back against the wall.  
  
He had never in his life thought he would stoop so low as to drink his own piss. He always thought he would rather die than degrade himself like that again. But here he was, pissing in his cupped palms and lapping it up like a dog. And it still wasn’t enough.  
  
They have done it. _They have broken him. ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It gets better in the next chapter, I promise...


End file.
